Weak
by Spacemin Spiff
Summary: Edward would be the last person to admit he had weaknesses. It's not that he doesn't. It's just that he lives in a world where people will use every little problem you've ever had to pry you open and devour you alive like an oyster. ScarecrowRiddler


(A/N: A bit of self indulgence written for the Batman Kink Meme. Warnings for broken bones and dubcon that's really more like noncon but the OP wanted dubcon so that's how it works. Full, slightly more explicit, occasionally incorrectly tensed fic can be found here: capsrock . livejournal . com / ?thread=833368#t833368 )

Because Edward is too smart (or stupid, some might argue) to fall feet first and break both his legs when he jumps off of the side of the warehouse and out of Batman's reach he instead twists his body and falls on his side, his body curved into itself, his hands spread protectively over his precious head. And he waits for the pain.

Edward would be the last person to admit he had weaknesses. It's not that he doesn't, and it's not that he doesn't know what they are. It's just that he lives in a world where people will use every little problem you've ever had to pry you open and devour you alive like an oyster. And then there's the matter of his ego…

But there are weaknesses unique to a certain person, weaknesses with fingerprints and memories and nightmares that you wake up from realizing you've crawled off of your bed in a desperate attempt to escape. There are weaknesses that you carry with you, cradle like a baby, hide as deep as you can. There are weaknesses that are almost part of your genetic code, weaknesses you push your children to become immune to and so breed in them entirely different weaknesses. Weaknesses that are glorified symptoms of individuality.

And then there are weaknesses everyone has.

Femurs, for example.

It's a little bit telling that despite being the strongest bone in the human body it's the first thing that cracks when Edward makes contact with the cold wet concrete of the alleyway. He fights twin impulses to scream out in agony and retch at the all too familiar stench that only the ground in the worst areas of Gotham can hold on to, and once the initial pain stops sharply and shock sets in he is standing up once again, and before the numbness recedes he is hiding. Edward is good with shadows. He's had plenty of practice hiding in them, plenty of practice running with an injured leg, plenty of practice smooth talking himself into thinking he has a perfect skeleton, even when he heard, when he felt- oh god did he feel- the bone snap. And even after years of trying his hardest to get noticed, to be paid attention to, he can revert in an instant to a time when all he wanted was to hide and not be found. When all he wanted was to be quiet and blend in with the darkness. So when Batman's face, when his mask (who can tell the difference anymore?) appears over the side of the building he is already invisible, and the Caped Crusader is forced to assume his landing was far more graceful than it really was, and that the Prince of Puzzles is gone. Edward holds his breath and counts until the shadow against the night sky is gone, until he is alone. It's an old habit that refuses to die, and at the moment he doesn't feel like trying to break it. Eventually he stops staring at the roof of the warehouse and tries to move. There are no words to describe the pain, and his mind starts coping, starts playing with the concept that screams were invented for times when words are useless. _'What do you say when…'_ no, he doesn't like that start. Perhaps personification would suit the concept better. _'I speak without words, I…I emote without features, and I convey without language'_ Edward frowns. Perhaps he should combine speak without words and convey without language. He hated to repeat himself, but things were much better in threes… _'I speak without language, I emote without features, and…'_ he tries to shift his position, accidentally putting more pressure on his bad leg. He opens his mouth to scream, knowing that one wail in an alleyway will bother no one, will summon no police, in a place like this. But no sound will come out, and he has to give up on it to shakily suck in fresh air.

"…and when I am strongest of all I am mute." He mutters hoarsely. "What am I?" The last question hangs self consciously in the air. He looks around. His cane, which would have been optimal in a time like this, was knocked out of his hands on the roof. He finds, after some effort, a shovel among the refuse. It isn't very sturdy, and there are blood and bits of scalp on it's spade, but it will support him long enough to get to… get to where? He knows of an… 'open minded' doctor in the neighborhood, but she is several blocks away. The closest place he can think to go is one of Scarecrow's lairs. Perhaps he can bargain his way into a ride to the doctor, providing Crane is even there. He uses the shovel to pull himself up, his bad leg hanging limp, and begins his trek.

If the break wasn't above the knee Edward could bend his leg and be in significantly less pain. As it is that isn't an option, so he is forced to drag his polished leather shoe on the ground as he moves, teeth grit, face tight, until he reaches his poorly lit haven. He braces one hand to the brick wall before him and knocks at the door with the shovel, the metal to metal contact making a stark sound. He shifts his weight back to the shovel, straightening and retucking his shirt, fiddling with his tie, maximizing the jauntiness of his bowler hat. It's bad enough that he had to be seen injured, but he will under no circumstances allow himself to be seen disheveled. So when Dr. Johnathan Crane opens the door to his makeshift lair he comes upon a very well dressed Edward Nygma, albeit with a dirty shovel and a crooked leg.

"Good evening doctor." Edward's voice is as always arrogantly chipper, bordering on gleeful. The nerves in his leg have little or no effect on the smile on his face or the cheer in his tone. Johnathan looks Edward over. His mouth is covered by a small ventilated mask and he holds his hands, encased in latex, upwards like a surgeon. The door has been wired to open not with the turn of the knob but the push of a button, and his elbow is still pressed against it. It unnerves Edward just a bit how sanitary the older man is. He feels that Johnathan's 'work' is inherently filthy, inherently emotional. He has no right to be so clean, so disengaged. He does notice, however, that under the protective goggles his glasses are filthy and his shoes are caked with dirt. Edward clings to this observation, this fault, and uses it like a brace to stand up straighter, to continue grinning like a corpse. Johnathan sighs and retreats into the warehouse, returning to his desk, to his chemicals, to his passion for suffering and the way it guts the mind like a knife to the belly of a trout. He leaves the door open, and Edward takes it as an invitation to enter. He does so, pushing the button to close it once more, leaning heavily on his shovel as he moves over to where Johnathan is back to work. Edward glances around. There are papers, both lined and unlined, stapled and free, taped to the walls and scattered on the floor. There is what might pass in some circles as a bed in one corner. The agony is creeping back into his skin.

"Johnathan?" he calls, knuckles white on the handle of his shovel "As enchanting as your abode may be, I didn't come here for the interior design." Johnathan shows no sign of hearing him. "…or the lively conversation." Edward mutters "You see, I've had an unfortunate encounter with a certain Bat, and I've injured my leg somewhat. I know of an open minded practitioner of the healing arts nearby, but I need some assistance getting to her office." He pauses, still waiting for response. Dr. Crane has ceased his work, but is still ignoring him. Edward doesn't like being ignored.

"Johnathan" The irritation sneaks into his voice before he can smother it, but Dr. Crane does finally look up at him. "I'm not asking for charity Doctor." Edward says quickly, with the grandeur of a magician, as if he could erase his previous falter, his previous inability to restrain undesirable emotion. "I'll certainly repay you. I can be quite invaluable when it comes to planning out tricks and traps and diversions to keep a heist secure, not to mention my talents off the drawing board." His voice is tempting now, with a hint of generosity. Johnathan considers this silently. Edward waits impatiently, the pain seeping back into his nerves as he stops speaking, stops exalting his talents. It's getting hard to concentrate. He's been walking for a while with this injury, and standing still with it is no stroll in the park either. When Johnathan remains silent he grows impatient "Or, if you can't see the value of my assistance, monetary compensation is certainly-"

"You act as if you had anything worth bargaining for." Jonathan says, and his words are dry and rather amused by themselves. He slowly removes his latex gloves, finger by finger, his skin long immune to the drying, chalky feeling they leave. Edward falters.

"Now Jonathan, I know at present I'm the one asking favors, but I'm not an _invaluable_ resource." Jonathan glances back at him.

"I never said you weren't. But the value you present is…" Johnathan turns to the younger man and purses his lips as he considers. How does one tactfully explain to a man that his value is physical. How does one say 'You are a lab rat and I'm going to shoot you full of chemicals and make you run a little maze for my amusement. You are a scientific specimen, like all of the filth of this city, stupid and weak. I am going to label you and file you away. But first I'll make you scream.'? He decides, eventually, that some things, despite their truth, cannot be said civilly. "You have many attributes worthy of taking. But not many worth bargaining for." He puts his beakers away. He pulls off the mask and goggles that protect him from dust and fumes and self doubt.

Edward, meanwhile, is trying to understand, but it hurts so damn much. He needs to stop standing, he needs to lie down. He needs a doctor. He is working Crane's words out stutteringly, half mindedly. 'What is a thing worth taking, but not bartering?' He can't think of an answer. 'What is a thing you can steal- a thing that is stolen but not sold?' Johnathan is advancing, but Edward is thinking. Johnathan's hand is resting on the handle of the shovel that is Edward's lifeline to dignity. He is not strong, but neither is Edward, and when he yanks the shovel away and shoves hard the other man falls back. And when his fractured thigh hits paper and cement he screams, and Dr. Crane is pleased by the sound and the confusion in his eyes. He dips down and straddles the younger man.

"You think you're clever." He isn't laughing, but it's clear he finds the concept ludicrous. "You think just because you can twist around words and make snide remarks it means you have a brilliant mind, that you have something valuable. And perhaps you can fool other people. But I know you're just a narcissist." He spits, his composure fracturing, and Edward manages to fight the pounding blood in his ears and the agony in his leg enough to start struggling "You just want attention. You just want praise. And I'm sure the psychiatrists have talked to you about your mother never hugging you and your father never-" Johnathan didn't expect the blow. He had let himself lean too close to the other man's face, had allowed his voice too much smugness, and he pays for it with a bloody nose. "The only cure for people like you is a lobotomy." He says with disgust, leaning back so that his weight shifts atop Edward's broken bone and the other man is once more reduced to twitching and gasping for air, begging his lungs to let him scream. "I wasn't lying, however, when I said you had attributes of value."

He has a needle in his hand now, and he strips it of its protective plastic before retrieving a small vial with a rubber cap. He leans forward, taking to pressure from Edward's fractured bone and returning it to his fractured mind. Edward comes back from wherever pain takes you when it made you blind and deaf and floating and stares at the glint of the needle.

"Now Edward, I am getting something out of you indeed, but it won't be because you offered it. It will be because I take it." Johnathan says quietly. Edward blinks. It is the only thing he can do. He doesn't want to know what he might see, what he might say, if Crane doses him. He only knows that he was planning to never hear his Father's voice again, and that getting injected with fear toxin would probably ruin that plan. He wants desperately to scream. He can't, and this time it's not because his lungs are demanding inhale instead of exhale, it's because of fear. He watches Johnathan push the point of the needle into the rubber cap of the vial. His voice, when he speaks, is hoarse and decidedly less chipper than it previously was, but he is stubbornly smiling, stubbornly smug.

"R-Riddle me this. I sp-speak without language, I-"

"Do as I say Edward or I'll pump you so full of fear toxin your mind will snap in seconds." Johnathan cuts him off flatly, slowly pulling back the plunger of the needle so that it fills with green liquid. He taps it gently, letting a bit of the toxin leak out, making sure there are no air bubbles. He places it on the ground and gets something else from his pocket. Edward's voice trails off. His eyes are darting around. Needle. He had plenty of riddles about sewing needles. Did he have one about medical needles? 'In my belly I hold… life'… or would it be death? Both. 'I hold both life and death. I hold both ecstasy and anguish. I carry on from one to another. I-' Dr. Crane has his arm, he is rolling up the sleeve of his shirt like the school nurse, roughly. He is cleaning the area with alcohol. He doesn't need a tourniquet to find the vein he wants.

"Dr. Crane!" he pleads, hoping the title will appease the man "For God's sake!"

"Will you do as ordered?"

"Will you take me to the doctor?"

"Will you do as ordered, Edward?" Edward hesitates, and Johnathan picks up the needle.

"Fine! Yes! Just- just put that thing away."

"Are we afraid of needles Edward?" Dr. Crane says with a touch of amusement, placing the needle back on the floor and pulling Edward's sleeve down. Edward clutches the arm to his chest as if it were wounded.

"No!" He hates himself for sounding so childish, for letting himself become unnerved, but Johnathan is clearly amused, and his hands are already defiling Edward's carefully tucked in shirt, yanking it from his waistband. He feels at the material. It's clearly expensive. He's not surprised. He rips the front of it apart like Velcro, buttons flying off around them like popcorn on an open pan. He moves upwards, yanking Edward's tie loose before removing it completely. Technically Edward needn't be naked. But Jonathan has seen the way he admires himself in the one way glass at Arkham, has seen the way he keeps his orange jumpsuit as neat as if it were his Sunday's Best, has seen the way he preens and straightens himself like a gibbering bird. He takes a perverse pleasure in his clothing, in being neat. And so Dr. Crane takes a perverse pleasure in destroying his neatness, his order, his presentability.

Edward stares uncomprehendingly, his terror and aching leg keeping his normally sharp mind buzzing. Now Crane has his shirt open, and he spreads his hands over Edward's ribcage. Edward is thin. Of course Johnathan is thinner, but this isn't an issue, as most of his clothes will remain securely fastened in what is to come. Edward is thin and Crane can just feel his labored breathing, see his diaphragm tense and release, his ribcage expand and contract with his lungs. He can tell the younger man is in pain, more pain then he lets on. He prefers fear to pain, of course, but he won't kick pain out of bed for eating crackers. Pain is to fear as masturbation it to sex. A crude proxy, but passable. Johnathan seizes the lapels of Edward's jacket and wretches it over his head, knocking his carefully positioned bowler hat away with the same motion. He looks the jacket over briefly. It's clearly custom, clearly well maintained. Crane imagines Edward might even iron it himself. He throws it to the side in a crumpled pile and pulls up Edward's shirt as if he's skinning a rabbit. Edward makes a sound about Italian silk and the ground being cold, but Crane ignores him because he notices the shirt is stuck at the cuffs, which have been tailored to hug Edward's thin wrists like handcuffs. But instead of wasting time tugging it off he decides to use the opportunity to tie his hands together above his head. Edward is indignant at this, and his prideful offence helps focus him on what's happening.

"What are you doing?" he demands, his voice still hoarse from unuttered pain.

"Isn't it obvious Edward?" Crane's hands drift to the belt of the younger man's pants. Purple snakeskin. How could one man be simultaneously so obsessed with image and neatness and so flamboyantly tasteless? He decides that removing that particular aberration can wait, and he moves instead to his own belt. "I did say you had desirable attributes, desirable… weaknesses." He unbuckles his belt, but immediately moves his hands back to the other man's chest, walking them over his taut skin like spiders.

Edward squirms as best he can considering his injury and position. He doesn't like where this is going. "For all your narcissism and obnoxious preening, you are in fact quite handsome." Crane isn't lying. He is attractive in a youthful, almost childish way. But more importantly he is broken. So beautifully, obviously broken in a way Crane feels only he can appreciate fully. In a way only fear toxin can bring to full bloom. But that is for later. For now he is acting under the pretense of purely physical desire, and he leans forward, placing his hands on either side of Edward's head. Ah, there it is. He can see it in his eyes. The fear. He closes his eyes, capturing the expression in his mind like a camera, and pushes his lips against the younger man's. And then Edward understands, and it will bother him later that his first thought is 'Why didn't I figure it out sooner?' and his second is 'He smells like a hospital.' and it isn't until his sixth thought that he realizes that another man is shoving his tongue down his throat and he should probably object to this. But his mouth is a bit busy for that, and Crane seems to be trying to read the ridges at the top of Edward's mouth with his tongue as if they were Braille.

And all Edward can do at first is stare into his dirty glasses, which glint like searchlights, until he summons the will to begin struggling. He arches his back, trying to press his head into the concrete floor, but Crane merely leans forwards and wraps his thin fingers around his face, digging his nails into the skin. Edward, if he was possessing of the faculties, would say something scathing to make up for his inability to escape this situation by physical means. But he can't, so he instead bites down on the intruding tongue. Hard. Johnathan lurches away and Edward can taste blood, and he feels a little bit of vindication that for once it isn't his own. Dr. Crane scowls down at him, the blood from his nostrils intermingling with that of his tongue, dripping down his chin and lower lip onto Edward's neck. Edward looks up at Johnathan with a sort of nervous smugness, trying to ignore the warm drops of blood coloring his windpipe, trying not to feel them slowly make their way around, inching towards the back of his neck. He barely notices when he starts speaking.

"I speak without language, I emote without features. And-"

"Now Edward, I thought I made it clear that you would behave yourself."

"You never said I couldn't bite." He snaps. 'You never told me this is what you want from me' remains unspoken but looming. "And besides, for someone who started this by saying 'do as I say' you've been doing an awful lot of doing and not as much saying as expected."

The slap is backhanded and relieves him of his previous hypersensitivity to the red streaks marching across his neck. Johnathan was never one for physical violence, but he doesn't shy away from it when it is needed and it is most certainly needed now. If he had to select the most irritating thing about Edward he would probably chose his audacity. He seems utterly unaware that Crane is the one in charge of this situation, that to Johnathan Edward is just another specimen, albeit an intriguing one, meant only to be prodded and cut into pieces and drowned in formaldehyde. He is just as simpleminded and weak and scared as the rest of the filth, yet he has the gall to think he is clever. He has the neck to think he is exempt. There is nothing Dr. Crane despises and embodies more than arrogance.

"Well then Edward, if that's how you feel, then I'll not waste time trying to ease you into our agreement." His voice descends into a growl as he speaks, and Edward wants to scream that this is hardly what he'd refer to an agreement. Coercion perhaps. Intimidation at least. But not an agreement. "Spread you legs." Crane knows exactly how cruel he is when he asks this, and he savors it like a fine wine. He's been in Arkham for so very long. He's been pretending to be polite for so very long.

"Johnathan… Please, I-" Edward doesn't know where he's trying to go, he doesn't know what he would say if he could finish his sentence, but Crane cuts him off and he doesn't have to.

"Knees up Edward." He says in his most professionally exasperated tone, and Edward moves his left leg as ordered, but his fractured right leg refuses to budge more than an inch or two. Crane doesn't bother trying to encourage him. He hooks his arm under Edward's thigh and forces it up sharply, smiling as the younger man's face is overtaken by astonished agony. He savors the expression momentarily before yanking Edward's pants, along with his underwear, upwards and over the peak of his knees, exposing his badly bruised and swollen leg, as well as the various other bruises just now blossoming over his flesh. Edward gasps like a fish. He can feel the bone shifting beneath the muscle, and the muscle screaming beneath the skin, and every nerve dancing a violent and jarring Busby Berkeley routine. Crane pushes his waistband to his ankles before pulling his shoes (expensive, leather, scuffed) off with jarring, hurried movements and removing Edward's pants entirely. Then he pauses to admire.

Edward looks so very afraid, so very agonized, so very manageable. His fingers claw vaguely at the papers on the floor and his eyes dart as if watching the movements of a bat. He is utterly naked but for his socks, which are purple, but Crane will allow them to remain fettered. He moves back over the younger man, his muscles tensed and predatory, his hands on either side of his ribcage, fingers digging into flesh, finding holds between ribs, discovering weak spots and bruises and small injuries that only a true connoisseur of agony can appreciate. Edward's gasps transform into a shuttering and heavy panting, interrupted only by an assortment of whimpers and a few moans. Crane retreats to his own, already unbuckled, belt and pulls it off suddenly so that it whips against the inner thigh of what is fortunately Edward's uninjured leg. The stutters unite into a single yelp before dissolving into themselves again. He pauses to rifle though the pockets of his coat, retrieving a bottle of lubricant more than likely intended for heavy duty machinery as opposed to sex, but which would be acceptable for the time being. He unzips and unbuttons his pants. Edward's eyes are closed, and they aren't intent on opening. He can feel Crane's hands on him, can feel the heat building in the pit of his stomach. Johnathan pauses, repositioning Edward's legs so that the pain takes the next few seconds away from him, so that his next conscious sensation is of being violated.

"Now Edward, I'm going to need you to relax for this next portion of our… session." Johnathan's smirk spreads like oil over water.

"Bastard." Edward growls, but nonetheless tries to relax, tries to accept his debasement. He cringes. It hurts, but not as much as he had assumed. He was expecting it to hurt more. Edward is determined not to make a sound, even though despite everything there is a certain warmth building in him, even though despite everything he can feel the pleasure overtaking the pain, or at least the pain transmuting itself into pleasure. Johnathan himself is making small animal sounds, unquestionably unprofessional sounds, as he thrusts into Edward, as he breathes in shatteringly. It doesn't take long before Johnathan is finished. Edward's eyes open and roll back. His back tenses, everything tenses, and he yelps with release. There is a quiet moment where they both breathe before Johnathan pulls out with a grunt.

"And… when I'm strongest of all I'm mute." Edward's voice is harsh and demoralized. "Who am I?" He feels hurt, he feels ashamed, he feels so very good that the agony doesn't matter. Johnathan is doing something, preparing something, something with nimble fingers and a professional stance, something that ignores his deep, angry pulse and the hair stuck to the back of his neck. But Edward lacks the strength to figure out what it is, and even when Johnathan turns around and grabs his arm, even when he sees the needle, he doesn't understand. "But-" but I was good. But I let you hurt me, I let you humiliate me, but I let you kill something inside of me that I didn't know I was coveting.

"Now Edward, we both know you were hardly a model patient." Johnathan sounds almost disappointed, almost…cheated. Edward tries to say something, but he feels the sharp, hot sting of the needle and then pressure builds in his arm and his pupils dilate, and Johnathan is lost to him. The warehouse is lost to him. His leg is lost to him. He is a playtoy to the chemicals rushing through his veins, the pulses that the toxin forces his neurons to emit, the memories it pulls screaming from the depths of his pathos and twists. He is in a cold darkness and he can feel his father lurking. He can feel him nearing his hiding place, he can hear him calling. He tries to be quiet, he tries to still his breath, but it's useless, and suddenly there is a blinding light and pain reclaims his nerves with passionate vengeance. And all he can do is scream.

When Edward wakes up his leg is throbbing dully and held rigidly straight, his head is pounding, and his mouth tastes like he's been sleeping for a year. It takes a decent amount of effort to open his eyes, and even more determination to focus on the thin, unamused face of Dr. Noble. He glances down, lifting the bedsheet. He is in a hospital gown and his thigh is swollen and bruised, with thick black stitches going down it.

"Surgery?"

"We put a metal rod in your thigh bone. It can be removed at a later date once the bone heals. It was a simple break, but it had obviously been agitated."

"When can I leave?" Edward mutters, trying to sit up. His body moans in protest, but he ignores it, grinding his teeth together as if trying to reduce them to rubble.

"If you were an ordinary patient I would keep you for a bit under a week. But I have little doubt you'll drag yourself out of here by this afternoon." She glances at her clipboard. "At least the fear toxin is out of your system. It was a surprisingly minor dosage." She lifts a page, skimming the contents briefly "Now, I can give you some pain medicine you won't take,"

"You know they disturb my ability to focus." Dr. Noble continued on as if he hadn't spoken.

", some crutches you won't use, and some leaflets you won't read. But there's nothing else I'll be able to do for you if you insist on leaving."

"You could get me something to drink." Edward offers. Dr. Noble gives him a trying look before getting up and leaving the private hospital room. Edward settles back into bed, rubbing his temples. He glances around, spotting his shirt and pants folded on a chair next to his bed. He leans over, retrieving the clothes and pulling them into his lap. Half of the buttons are gone from the front of his shirt and his pants are frayed around the bottom. His belt is missing, as is his jacket and his hat. He searches his pants pockets. His wallet is gone too. Great. But his small booklet of crossword puzzles, which he carries around to entertain himself during trying times, is still there. He flips it open. On the first page, scribbled over the half completed puzzle in thin red ink, are the words "a scream". Edward furrows his brows, ripping out the page and crumpling it up.

"Lucky guess." He mutters, throwing it into the wastebin in the corner.

End


End file.
